


.The Consequences of Consuming Paint.

by The_Wild_Sophia



Category: Clone High
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, i lied this is really sad, im sorry this is kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26695021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wild_Sophia/pseuds/The_Wild_Sophia
Summary: To put it simply, there was something wrong with Van Gogh.
Relationships: Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	.The Consequences of Consuming Paint.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Referenced self-harm, Attempted suicide, thoughts of self-hatred

To put it simply, there was something wrong with Van Gogh. As of late, he seemed more irritable and tired, didn’t enjoy doing activities with you and, one of the more concerning to you, wasn’t eating as much. He was already a pretty small, thin guy, and the thought that he wasn’t eating made you worry more than normal. 

You already knew Van Gogh was depressed, it was part of the reason you became friends, but it seemed that his symptoms were getting worse. With everything going on, you were scared that he would try to do something he’d regret. 

You thought this because, like Van Gogh, you too were depressed and knew how impulsive people could become when they were hurting. 

You were currently in Painting II with him. He was getting his work done, but he was lacking the normally present enjoyment he usually had. He seemed distracted, simply idly correcting a few mistakes in the piece he had made the day before. You had tried to start a conversation with him, but it was difficult to hold it since he wasn’t really interested, only offering a few word responses. 

It left a bad taste in your mouth. Even if he wasn’t a very outgoing person, he would normally converse with you like there was no tomorrow. 

You eventually left it alone, opting to work in silence for the rest of the class. He never made an effort to talk to you afterwards. 

Class ends and you notice how slow Van Gogh gathers his things. You decide to help him, putting the paints and brushes he was using away. When you turned around you noticed that he had left before you could walk him out. 

For the rest of the day you tried to get your work done in your classes, but you just couldn’t help but wonder if he was alright. At first you were simply worried about him, but after that class you were terrified. Since you two didn’t have anymore classes after that you tried to look for him in the halls while transitioning classes, but to no avail. 

It was the end of the day and you at your lockers grabbing the books you needed to do your homework. You were planning to head over to Van Gogh’s dorm to check up on him before heading over to yours for the night. Before you close your locker, however, you felt a tap on the back of your shoulder. Turning around you were met with the blue eyes of Van Gogh. 

“There you are!” You said while closing your locker, “I’ve been looking around for you.” You finished. He looked away a moment and scratched the back of his neck. 

“Yeah, sorry. I haven’t exactly been myself lately which…I’m sure you could tell.” He said, shifting from his right foot to his left, “I’ve had a lot to deal with recently and have had a crap ton of things on my mind. I just…wanted to thank you for being by me and supporting me all this time.” 

You stayed silent; it was a technique you learned in psychology where if you stayed quiet someone would keep talking. And sure enough, he did.

“So, thank you for always being there to help me,” He looked up at you and smiled. 

But it wasn’t right. 

It seemed a bit forced and the emotion behind it didn’t convey joy or happiness, but despair and regret instead. It was a smile you knew all too well, and you had a pretty good idea about what he was planning to do. However, you decided to play dumb.

“Of course,” You started, “I’ll always be here for you, Vincent. Even if you’re at your lowest, I’ll be there to dust you off and pick you back up. I’d…be lost if something were to happen to you.” You said, hoping that your choice of words would get him to reconsider. You saw his smile drop slightly.

“Is there…something you need to talk about?” You ask after a moment.

“No, no, I just wanted to thank you for standing by me,” He said, “You were really the best friend someone could ask for.”

_ Were. _

“Thanks,” You said, trying to ignore the nauseous feeling you had in your stomach, “If you ever need to talk just stop by my dorm or send me a text, got it?” You ask him, receiving a nod. 

“I’ve got to get going. My teachers didn’t hesitate to assignment a bunch or work.” He said turning around and walking away.

“Alright, see you tomorrow!” You shouted before he left. He only turned to look at you and smiled. He turned back around and continued walking. 

He already had his mind set.

You felt that coiling in your stomach and this time you actually felt like you were going to be sick. You gave him some time to get to his dorm -- you knew how long it took since you and him constantly walked there after school -- before you made your way there. 

You shifted on your feet a moment before giving a hesitant knock. You waited a moment before knocking harder, calling his name.

“Van Gogh? You there?” You shouted, “It’s me, Y/N.” You waited another minute before you decided that it had been long enough. You quickly searched for the key to his dorm, finding it and opening the door quickly.

The lights were off but you could see the mass on the bed that you assumed was Van Gogh. You turned the lights on and quickly made you way over to him. While running over there, a note on his desk caught your attention. 

You looked over at it briefly, only reading the first line and you quickly realized what it was. 

His suicide letter.

You quickly looked over at him, ignoring the tears that were welling up in your eyes, grabbed his shoulder and shook him. 

“Van Gogh?” You called out, shaking him a bit harder, but there was no response from him. That sinking feeling returned as you quickly removed the covers finding no blood, but instead…paint?

You looked down at your feet and saw that, in your haste, you had been standing on empty tubes of paint, most of them being yellow. 

“What did he…?” You questioned, before seeing an empty bottle of turpentine. 

“Did you…!” You asked out loud before checking his mouth and, sure enough, there was a collage of different colors. Blues, greens, purples, reds and yellows -- all matching the tubes scattered around the floor -- mashed together, illustrating his despair.

“You-IDIOT.” You shouted as you quickly picked him up, relieved at how warm he still was, and made your way to his bathroom. 

You gently placed him in the bathtub and turned on the water. You got in, sitting behind him and placing him in between your legs. You held him close to you with your left arm as you, despite wanting to, shoved your fingers into his mouth.

You hated doing this, but you knew that this had to be done. You had to get the paint and turpentine out of his body. 

It was disgusting, feeling the warm paint slide between your fingers as you pushed them even farther into his mouth. You didn’t even try to hold the tears and sobs back as your attempt to help him seemed to fail. 

“Van Gogh…VINCENT!” You sobbed into the back of his neck as you kept prodding at his throat. “PLEASE. Please. please, please, please, please, please…don’t leave me.” You cried.

“Please…I love you. I love you so much so  _ PLEASE _ …stay. Stay so that I can tell you that to your face.” You were still screaming, sobbing and about to pull your fingers out in defeat before it happened. 

You felt it, warm and wet, before you actually saw it. 

A jumble of bright colors, with the distinct color of vomit, decorated your arm and was quickly dragged down the drain by the water. 

“Van Gogh…” You said, removing your fingers and listening to him cough for a moment. 

“Who…?” He asked quietly. You barely heard him over the running water. Relief quickly ran through your system, tangling with your anxiety and fear, as you wrapped both arms around his middle section, feeling him take gulping breaths of air.

“Me-It’s me. It’s Y/N.” You said while gently rocking him in the water. The paint and vomit had stained your long sleeve shirt and was most likely getting on Van Gogh’s coat, but you didn’t care. 

“Van Gogh,” You said as his breath evened out, “Vincent, I love you. I love you so damn much. Don’t…don’t leave me. Not like this. Never like this.” You said as the tears of relief mixed with the ones of despair on your cheeks. Neither of you moved or spoke for a moment before you felt his arms on your own that were around his waist. 

“Okay,” He began, his voice a lot more hoarse than normal, “Okay, I’ll stay.” He said while shifting in your arms to face you. His own cheeks, although difficult to tell with the water, were stained with tears. His face was flush and eyes red and you assumed you looked the same.

“I love you,” Were his next words, “I love you too.” You felt that coiling return and this time you didn’t ignore it. It didn’t feel bad this time, but instead somewhat enjoyable. You pressed him to your chest, embracing him tightly. He returned the favor, wrapping his arms around your neck. You heard and felt him cough a few times on you but it didn’t bother you. 

You stayed in there, water pouring over you, until your fingers pruned up and the water turned cold. When he pulled away there were paint stains on your shirt where his face had been pressed into it. You stood up, turning off the water and helped Van Gogh out of the tub. 

The two of you awkwardly stood there for a moment. Both of you were soaked to your core. After a moment, Van Gogh spoke up.

“I’ll…get us some dry clothing.” He began ringing out his clothes over the tub and, hesitantly, started to take his coat off. Upon doing so revealed the orange-cream color v-neck shirt you had bought for him. It also revealed the soaking wet bandages that covered both of his forearms. You frowned, but didn’t stare since you knew how annoying it was. 

He squeezed the rest of the water out before saying, 

“I’ll be right back.” He left the room and you stood there for around a minute before the door opened again. 

In his arms were a few towels, a plastic bag and clothing. He handed them to you explaining,

“Sorry, these were the only clothes I had that would fit you since you’re taller than me and all.” He scratched the back of his neck, “Uh, I’ll leave you to it.” He said awkwardly before leaving the bathroom again.

You hadn’t even looked at the clothes until after you had stripped down and dried yourself off. Upon inspecting them you encountered a problem.

They were short sleeved.

Specifically a short sleeved t-shirt and pair of shorts.

You felt yourself frown as you looked at the clothing and then at yourself in the mirror. You may be a lot better than you were before, but you were still very,  _ very _ , self conscious about how many scars you had. You were especially worried at how Van Gogh would react to seeing them after… _ that _ . 

You had never told him you were depressed and telling him that you were this way wasn’t exactly appealing to you.

Nonetheless, you put the clothes on deciding that revealing clothes are better than wet ones. You placed your wet clothing in the bag before making your way to the door. You hesitated a moment, before slowly cracking the door open and looking out.

You spotted Van Gogh in new clothes undoing the wrappings on his head before he noticed you peeking out.

“Do the clothes fit?” He asked, pausing his movements. 

“Yeah…” You said opening the door all the way and stepping out. His eyes widened and his shoulders slouched, his hands still in his hair. It was quiet for a moment. 

“So uh…” You started after a minute, “I guess you were bound to find out someday. I had just hoped it wouldn’t be like… _ this _ .” You said, gesturing to yourself. He looked away from you, returning to unwrapping his head bandages. Once done he pulled the bandages away, revealing his ear to you.

It actually wasn’t as bad as people had said it was. A little over half of it was gone and there was dark scarring around the edge of it, yet it still didn’t look “disfigured” per say; just different. 

“I’m not really one to judge,” Van Gogh said, pulling you out of your thoughts, “I’m sure you could tell by now that I’m no better.” He finished with a nervous chuckle. He idly picked at the bandages around his arms as he met your gaze. 

Neither of you were sure what to do, simply looking at the other wait for them to do something. 

“Here,” You said after it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything, “Let me help you rewrap everything.” You made your way over to him and sat down next to him on the bed. Hesitantly, he offered you an arm and you gently began unwrapping it. You felt his eyes on you the whole time.

It was an all too familiar sight, one that usually didn’t faze you anymore. It did this time since you knew that this was Van Gogh and that he did this to himself. You couldn’t help the tears that began to well up in your eyes, but you did your best to ignore them. It was only when one of them hit Van Gogh’s did you do something.

“Y/N?” Van Gogh asked but you held a hand up quieting him. 

“I’m fine.” You said, gesturing for him to give you his other arm. He did, and you began unwrapping that one too. You held both arms together and briefly looked at Van Gogh to see him staring directly at some of your own. 

Normally, something like this bothered you, but it didn’t this time. 

You rubbed his hands with your thumbs before you leaned down to press a kiss to both of them. When you looked up you saw Van Gogh staring at you with tears in his eyes. You took both of his hands into your own before stroking his cheek. You pressed a kiss to his other cheek before standing up. 

“Where do you keep your bandages?” You asked. 

“In my desk. Middle drawer on the left.” He answered and you made your way over there. The note briefly caught your attention before you turned it back to finding the bandages. You scrounge around for a moment before finding what you were looking for. You walked back over and set the bandages, along with rubbing alcohol and cotton pads, on the bed. You brought his hands into your lap before you got to work, first cleaning them with alcohol and covering them. You did your best to ignore the small whimpers of pain Van Gogh would make when you cleaned a particularly fresh cut. 

Once done, you threw the used cotton pads away and returned the other supplies to the drawer. You looked back over to Van Gogh noticing that he had curled up into himself, pulling his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. 

“Hey,” You said, getting his attention, “Let me cook you some dinner. You’ll feel better afterwards.” He looked away a moment before asking,

“Do you think we could cover my ear first?” 

“No,” You began and for a moment he looked taken aback, “Wait for your hair to dry first and then we’ll cover them. Otherwise the bandages will just get wet again.” He frowned, but you could tell he understood. 

“You know, I always thought you had cut off the whole ear, not just part.” You say. He looks up, “This is honestly an upgrade. In my opinion at least; it gives you character, makes you stand out in a good way.” You say while slowly walking over to him before taking him into your arms.

“Come on, don’t look so sad.” You said while laying back on the bed on your side, Van Gogh pressed against you. He wrapped his arms around you and held onto you tighter as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. You stayed quiet for a moment before speaking up.

“Look,” You started, feeling his eyes land on you, “I of all people probably understand what you’re going through. Hell, I probably know what you’re thinking right now. Probably something like, ‘What do I do now?’ and ‘Where do I go from here?’. Something like that, right?” 

He looks at you shocked before asking, “How do you know this?” It seemed that he realized the answer before you actually said it because you saw his jaw snap shut after asking.

“I…also tried to, you know,  _ end  _ my life. Twice actually.” You added with a nervous chuckle. “I’ve been doing my best to get better and, even though I’m not all the way there, I’ve begun to like living again. And I think that’s possible for you to achieve that too.” You look down at him and notice how the tears had fallen from his eyes, but he had a blank stare.

He was probably spaced out you figured. You knew he heard what you said but he just could really respond. 

“Listen, I know you don’t want to talk about this tonight and we don’t have to, but let me take care of you. Please?” You explain. He shifts in your arms a moment before saying,

“Alright.” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead and, reluctantly, pulling away from him. 

“Great. I’ll cook some dinner for us.” You walked over to his kitchen to see what you could make. Upon looking around, you noticed that he didn’t have much to cook with, most of the things he had were prepackaged or frozen. 

“Wow, you’ve got nothing.” You say under your breath as you close the cabinet, “No wonder you’ve gotten so thin.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He apologies from the bed. After a moment of thought an idea pops into your head.

“Alright, put your shoes on, we’re going to my place.” You said as you made your way over to the door, grabbing your backpack and bag of wet clothes. 

“What?” He asks. 

“You heard me,” you said, grabbing his usual black dress shoes, “Dinner’s at my place tonight.” 

“But,” He said pausing for a moment, “I really don’t want to go out there with my ear… _ exposed _ like this.” You stared at him a moment while handing him his shoes.

“Look at me,” You stared, “I don’t want to go out like this either, but I was going to have to eventually. So, we’ll go out together, exposed.” 

He was quiet for a moment before he sighed.

“Alright, let’s go.” He said while putting his shoes on. The two of you walked out and thankfully there wasn’t anyone in the hallways at the moment. The two of you made your way up to your dorm, only running into a few people. Once there you set your things by the door and made your way to the kitchen. Van Gogh followed you and offered to help you, which you gladly accepted. 

You looked around to see what you could whip up quickly and decided to make a simple beef stew. You gave him a few vegetables asking him to peel them before you got to work cutting them, along with the beef, up and cooking them. You added the beef broth to everything and had to wait around 15 minutes. 

In that time, the two of you had decided to lay on your bed, holding each other ‘til the alarm went off. Both of you had gotten up and walked into the kitchen. You had Van Gogh sit while you cut up some bread and served both of you. 

The two of you ate in silence for a bit and it was nice. You were happy knowing that he was eating something, especially after having to empty his stomach like that. You also made sure he was drinking a lot of water.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Van Gogh said after a while, “I really appreciate this. And I’m sorry about what happened. About…you having to find me like  _ that _ .” You felt your stomach clench at his words.

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” You started. Van Gogh looked as if he was going to protest, but you continued before he could, “When people are in pain the way that you are, the way that I was, they do impulsive things; things that don’t accurately reflect them. So, don’t apologize to me, there’s nothing for you to be sorry for.” You finished and he looked down at his empty bowl. 

“Are you finished?” You asked as you stood up with your bowl.    
“Yeah.” He said and you took his bowl to the sink. You briefly looked over to the clock that read 9pm. You looked back over at Van Gogh, watching him idly trace the bandages on his arm. At least he wasn’t scratching them.

“Do you need any night clothes?” You asked. He looked over at you confused before answering,

“No?” 

“You sure?” You asked, “Because you’re spending the night.” You added and you smiled at the blush that spread across his face.

“I-Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to take up any space here.” He asked nervously.

“It would be my pleasure to have you stay here with me.” You said walking over to him and pressing a kiss to his forehead. You ran a hand through his bright orange hair before saying, 

“We can wrap your ear up now if you’d like. Your hair’s dry enough.” He smiled before looking you in the eye and saying,

“You know, I think I’ll leave it as it is.” You smiled before hugging and picking him up. 

“Thank  _ God _ , because your hair is soooo soft.” You said as you rubbed your cheek against the top of his head. You placed him down, giggling at the bright peach color that dusted his pale cheeks. 

“Come on, I have some unused toothbrushes you can have.” You said leading him over to your bathroom. You dug around your bathroom cabinet before finding a still packaged toothbrush and handing it to him.

“Are you sure you don’t want a different set of clothes? I know mine will fit you.” You said before you exited the bathroom. 

“I’m sure, but thank you again.” You heard him shout through the door. 

You waited for him to finish. A few minutes later he walked out of the bathroom. You turned the lights out before getting into bed. You noticed how Van Gogh just stood by the bathroom door until you motioned for him to join you.

“Get over here, I’m not gonna have you sleep on the floor.” You said and he started to walk over to the bed. He slowly, almost hesitantly, got into the bed with you. He stayed close to the edge of the bed farthest from you. 

“Do you want to…” You started, opening your arms. He looked at you for a moment before quickly scooting over and into your arms. You wrapped him up in the blankets and gently rocked him when you heard him quietly cry. 

“It’s alright. It’s okay to cry,” You say as you run a hair through fluffy, orange hair, “I’ll make sure you get help, okay?” You felt him nod into your shoulder. 

It was quiet for a while, you had assumed he had fallen asleep, until he asked,

“Do they have to know?” Before you can ask who ‘they’ are he clarifies, “My foster parents. Do they have to know about all of this?” 

You knew what he wanted to hear, but you had to be honest with him. You sighed before answering him.

“Yeah, they have to know. Along with the school and your general physician,” You said and you felt his grip on you tighten.

“But don’t worry,” You said trying to comfort him, “It’s really not as bad as it sounds, and I’ll be there to help you through it.” 

“I just don’t understand,” He said, catching your attention, “Why would you try to…end  _ your  _ life? You’re so…perfect, I just…don’t understand how someone like you could feel this way.” You looked down at him in the dark.

“The one thing about mental illness is that it doesn’t discriminate,” You begin, “It doesn’t matter how great, or shitty, your life is; this is just something that can affect the best of us.” You explained. He remained quiet, so you decided to keep speaking. 

“Something I was told that helped me understand this is that a butterfly is unable to see how beautiful the colors of its wings are, but us as observers are able to see the colors of its wings. Using that logic, people are always able to see the good and beauty in others, but not in themselves,” You explained to him. You trailed a hand through his hair, traced his jaw and tilted his chin up to look at you, “But I’ll be here to tell you how beautiful and…and  _ perfect  _ you are.” 

You saw his face flush as tears gathered in his eyes. 

“ _ God _ ,” He whispered looking away, “Sometimes it's hard to believe that you love me.” 

You grabbed his face and quickly pressed a kiss to his lips. He was stiff before melting into your embrace. His lips were chapped, yet oddly soft and you taste the lingering tang of vomit. I was kinda gross, but you didn’t care as much as you thought you would.

It was gentle and chaste and you pulled away stroking his cheek saying,

“Then I’ll keep saying it ‘til you believe it.” And that’s what did it for him. He let out a choked cry before full-on sobbing into your chest. 

You let him and only when his crying seemed to calm down did you say anything.

“Are you feeling better now?” You asked, receiving a nod from Van Gogh, “Good. Now, get some rest. You need it.” 

“Okay.” He whispered before curling back into your embrace. You pressed him tighter to yourself, resting your chin on his head and continuing to run your hand through his hair. It was something he seemed to like since you noticed how he would lean into your hand. 

It was quiet and before you knew it you had drifted off, asleep with Van Gogh in your arms. In all the time you knew him, you never thought you’d ever have this.

~~~~~~~

You woke up the next morning sometime around 8:30am. Classes start at 8:45am but you didn’t make a move to get up or to wake Van Gogh up. You simply stayed there with him, stroking his hair again. 

Seriously, that may have just become your new favorite activity. Running your hand through his soft, bright orange hair, feeling the weightless locks slip in between your fingers. 

You were the only one awake for a few minutes before Van Gogh slowly opened his pale cyan eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them. He looked up at you and smiled, and you couldn’t help but smile yourself at the dopy look on his face. His smile vanishes, however, as he quickly asks,

“Shoot, what time is it?” He sits up in the bad and makes a move to leave but you grab him by the shoulder, stopping his movements. 

“It doesn’t matter, we’ve got the day off.” You say while pulling him back into you.

“What are you talking about,” He begins, letting himself be pulled back into your embrace, “It’s a Thursday.” 

“Maybe so,” You start, sitting up in bed with him, “but we have some things to…workout.” You finish, rubbing the back of your neck. He shifted in your arms before say,

“Okay.” 

The two of you talked it out, he explained everything that was happening and why he did what he did. In turn, you gave him a run down about what the two of you would have to do now. You also explained how he might have to spend some time in a physical and then mental hospital due to the severity of everything that transpired. 

When you were done explaining everything, he was silent, most likely processing things. 

“I know that this is a lot to be introduced to so fast. Honestly, I wish I had known the first time what was going to happen with me.” You added with a slight chuckle to try and ease the atmosphere. I didn’t work seeing as Van Gogh seemed as tense as he was before, “Look at me.” You told him, and he did.

“Listen, I really wish I could say that this will be an easy thing for you to do, because it won’t be. I’ve been getting help for over a year and a half now and I still struggle sometimes, but I’m  _ so _ much better than it was before,” You explained and, for once, he seemed interested, “I still don’t  _ love  _ myself, but I definitely don’t hate myself anymore, and that’s something I want you to be able to say about yourself. Because I love you, and I want you to be able to love yourself.” 

You watched as tears began to well in his eyes. He quickly lunged at you and pressed his lips against your and morning breath had never tasted better than in that moment. You were momentarily taken back at his boldness before kissing him back with just as much intensity. 

When he pulled away you could see the tear tracks on his face and feel the cooling of his tears on your own. 

“Thank you,” He said, “I love you. I love you so  _ damn  _ much Y/N.” He finished, cupping your face in his petite hands. You smiled, pressing your forehead to his and cupping his face. 

“I love you too, Vincent Van Gogh.” You said and you ignored the ache in your cheeks as your smile widened when his face broke out in the lovely peach color. You pressed another kiss to his lips, one he quickly reciprocated. You pulled away, getting out of bed and stretching.

“Come on,” You said looking back at him smiling, 

“I believe we owe your foster parents a visit.”


End file.
